Joan’s eyes anxiously scanned the faces of the McKenna warriors. Drat! James was sitting at a table far too close to the dais for her peace of mind. Ah, but Malcolm had chosen a table that was set off to the side, barely in view of the dais. Perfect!
Boldly, she approached. “May I join ye?”
For an instant the table was silent with surprise. Then Malcolm rose to his feet and gestured to the man sitting on his right. Reluctantly, the warrior left the bench, taking his trencher of food with him. Joan stared pointedly at the now vacant spot, her brow narrowing.
Malcolm followed her gaze. His face broke into a slight grin as he brushed the crumbs and greasy bits of food off the bench with his palm. “Better?”
Joan nodded, then slowly sank onto the clean wood, wiggling into a position that she hoped kept her shielded from Archibald’s view.
“Is he looking this way?” she asked, nervously tearing a thick crust of bread into small pieces.
“Who?”
“Laird Fraser,” she hissed, her voice rising.
The sound drew the attention of the men seated across from her. Glaring at them, she lifted a single brow. They stared a moment longer, then hastily turned their attention to their food.
“He’s glanced over once or twice,” Malcolm replied. “But now he’s got a buxom lass sitting on his lap and his eyes are fastened squarely on her ti . . . hmm, bosom.”
“Good.” Joan pressed her palm tightly against her chest, trying to regain her composure.
“Are ye fearful of him?” Malcolm inquired.
“Nay,” she lied calmly. “Though I confess a strong desire to avoid him. Ours was a loathsome marriage.”
“Then ending it should have pleased ye both.”
Joan let out an ironic grunt. “The only thing that I could have done to please Archibald Fraser was to fling myself from the highest tower of his castle and bash my head on the stones beneath it.”
She felt Malcolm’s surprise at her comment and cursed her wayward tongue. Her dismal marriage was a private pain that she shared with no one—least of all a man. Thankfully, Malcolm made no further inquiries. Instead, he somehow procured a clean goblet, filled it with wine from the pitcher on the table, and handed it to her. He also moved his trencher between them, so she could partake of the meal.
Joan’s stomach churned, yet she removed her eating knife from her pocket and stabbed at the smallest piece of carrot. She chewed it slowly and methodically, washing it down with a long sip of wine.
“Aren’t ye hungry?” Malcolm inquired.
“Nay. I’ve already eaten,” she lied.
He gazed at her curiously. “Yer growling stomach tells a different tale.”
Joan pursed her lips. “Ye are mistaken, though ’tis understandable given the noise in the hall.” She pressed her hand against her midsection, willing it to stay silent.
Malcolm shrugged. “Suit yerself.”
To Joan’s relief, he dropped the matter, though she noted he moved several choice pieces of meat and vegetables to her side of the trencher. The food did look appetizing, yet she worried anything she put into her stomach might not stay down.
Faint from hunger and confused by the gallant gesture, Joan turned away, but the discomforting feeling of close observation left her jittery. She lifted her gaze to discover the McKenna men were once again regarding her far too closely.
“Please order yer men not to stare at me so openly,” she said sharply.
“What? Oh, aye.” He glared at the trio across the table. “Ye heard the lady. Attend to yer food.”
One of the soldiers let out a wet belch. The other two grinned, but they all obeyed the command and turned their attention to their meal. And tankards of ale.
“If ye wanted to avoid the scrutiny of men, ye should have worn something plain and dull,” Malcolm commented, as he tore a piece of meat in half.
Joan absently noted that the meat fell easily from the bone, indicating that it was cooked properly. She must remember to compliment Cook on the meal.
“I dinnae own any garments that are dull or plain,” she muttered.
“Only those that enhance yer beauty?” Malcolm said with a wry grin. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Joan felt her back stiffen, taking umbrage at his censuring tone. “I am as the good Lord made me. I take no credit fer my looks, be they fair or foul.”
“But they aren’t foul, are they?” His eyes drifted over her, slowly, assessingly. “Ye are extraordinarily beautiful.”
“Am I?” she asked, instantly regretting the question. After all she had suffered, she still had difficulty controlling the impulse to garner male attention, concluding it must be bred into her bones. But flirting with Malcolm McKenna was a waste of breath; doing it in front of Archibald was both foolish and dangerous. “Dinnae answer,” Joan added hastily. “It’s been a long, tiring day, after an even longer tiring week. I’m speaking nonsense.”
Malcolm leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “Have my wits gone missing? Can it be that ye just refused to hear a compliment, Lady Joan?”
“Indeed. I’ve no use fer flowery words. Now, I’d strongly advise ye to eat yer supper, Sir Malcolm, before it lands in yer lap.”
Joan lifted her goblet and glowered with stern disapproval. But instead of turning him away, the expression brought a grin to Malcolm’s handsome face. “As ye wish, my fair lady.” He took a large bite of meat and began chewing heartily.
A smile came unbidden to her lips. She hid it with another sip of wine. A page stopped at the table, his arms buckling under the weight of the tray of food he carried. Chuckling, the men immediately refilled their trenchers, nearly emptying the tray.
Joan caught the lad gazing longingly at the generous portions. Malcolm must have also noticed the page’s hunger. He picked up a lamb shank and offered it to the lad. The boy’s eyes widened with gratitude as he accepted the prize.
The men began talking among themselves. Joan listened with half an ear, content to stay in the background. A shy, unnoticed little mouse. She kept her face down, her expression demure, yet wondered if anyone was fooled. Probably not.
One of the soldiers tossed a bone onto the floor and two large hounds leapt for it. They growled and snarled, fighting for their prize. A few of the men shouted encouragements, while others took wagers as to which dog would be victorious. Yet a stern, quelling look from Malcolm ended any involvement from the McKenna men.
Needing a distraction, Joan turned toward Malcolm. “I’ve heard the most shocking rumors about the reason the clans have gathered here today. And they all center around ye and one of Laird MacPhearson’s daughters.”
“Really?” Malcolm lifted his goblet, staring at her as he took a long swallow, his deep blue eyes glinting with caution. “Perchance, have ye seen her? Spoken with her?”
“Who?”
“The laird’s daughter.”
Joan’s mood lightened with mischief. “Ye’ll have to be more specific. Three of his daughters made the journey.”
“Dinnae be coy, Joan. Ye know full well of whom I speak.”
The look in his eyes took away the small delight of teasing him. “I believe the lass ye are referring to is called Brienne.”
He nodded sharply.
“She brought a babe with her. They say ye are the lad’s father.” Joan leaned forward. “Is that true?”
Faint color deepened his tanned face. “Nay.”
“Then why have ye come?”
“To clear my name.”
“Judging by the scowl on Laird MacPhearson’s face, ye might have to do that with yer sword.”
He sighed. “Let’s hope not.” The corners of Malcolm’s mouth twitched. “So, did ye speak with Brienne?”
“Nay.” Seeing such a powerful, self-assured knight squirm should have brought Joan pleasure, but for some odd reason it didn’t. “All the MacPhearson lasses are sequestered in their chamber, with orders that they take their meals within that room. I dinnae think they wil
l be allowed to leave.”
“Though I realize ’tis near impossible, I had hoped to have the chance to speak with the lass alone,” Malcolm said with a cynical smile.
“’Twould be madness to try,” Joan replied. “The MacPhearsons expect ye to seek absolution fer yer disgraceful behavior, not repeat it.”
“I only want to speak with the lass,” Malcolm exclaimed.
“Why? Ye say the babe isn’t yers.”
Malcolm glanced guiltily down at the table. “I dinnae believe that I sired Brienne’s child. Yet I need to talk to her to make certain. I also need to discover why she has named me as the father.”
“I’m sure she has been ordered to stay as far away from ye as possible.”
“No doubt.” He cocked his head slightly, his expression oddly imploring.
The question hung silently in the air. He must be truly desperate to turn to me. Shockingly, she considered it for the briefest moment, but then swiftly came to her senses. “I cannae help ye.”
His hopeful expression shuttered closed and Joan felt a surprising stab of regret at disappointing him. But then a female screech drew her attention. She glanced up and saw Archibald push away from the table. He shoved aside the buxom maid he had been fondling, pinning Joan with his full attention, his eyes hot and possessive.
The clear challenge she saw in Archibald’s expression left her momentarily terrified, but anger soon replaced her fear. She could feel her cheeks heat with color, knew that her eyes were starting to blaze with anger.
Swiftly, Joan turned away, disheartened at her loss of control. There was nothing that Archibald enjoyed more than getting a rise out of her. ’Twas the fight he liked best, along with the chance to be spiteful and malicious. Well, she was not about to give him that sick pleasure and provide the entertainment he craved.
If for one moment she believed she would be granted justice, she would rise to her feet and reveal to all who sat in the great hall the truth about the monster who sat among them. Yet such a foolish whim could prove her undoing. She kept reminding herself how difficult it had been to escape him, how long she had toiled to carve a safe haven for herself and her son. One misstep and it would vanish in an instant.
Bitterness curdled her tongue, yet Joan’s survival instinct rose to protect her. ’Twas hard to bow her head and appear meek and docile, but she did it, all the while cursing Archibald to hell. She counted slowly to twenty and when she lifted her chin, he was gone.
But not forgotten.
* * *
Malcolm leaned back and openly studied Joan. There was a faint sheen glistening on her brow, yet she smelled pleasantly of flowers and soap. Her face was expressionless, eerily calm, yet he knew that she was rattled. She had barely eaten, her complexion was pale, her eyes haunted with undeniable distress.
He had the most ridiculous urge to reach over and brush the stray wisps of blond hair that had escaped from her circlet—a gesture of kindness and comfort. But he restrained himself.
He had heard from his brother, James, what a cold, selfish soul Joan possessed; years ago he had witnessed for himself her self-important attitude and haughty manner. ’Twas said by many that she had a heart of ice and he had seen the evidence of it. She was a woman to be avoided at all costs. He knew that, accepted that, embraced that, and yet . . .
Her vulnerability moved him; her regal bearing intrigued him. Her physical beauty was undeniable, but he was a man who valued far more than a pretty face. Truth be told, given all that he knew of her, there was no logical reason for his fascination with Joan Armstrong.
Yet Malcolm couldn’t deny that it existed.
“I bid ye good evening, Sir Malcolm,” she announced suddenly.
“Lady Joan.” He stood and bowed elegantly.
Malcolm watched Joan as she turned to leave. Her shoulders were squared, her head held high. He had seen the true fright in her eyes when she caught sight of her former husband, had heard the trembling in her voice when she spoke of him. Yet she did not run; instead she walked, gracefully and slowly, with a confidence few women could boast.
Malcolm tore his gaze from her fading figure. He had far more important things to concern himself with than Lady Joan. Regretfully, she had been unable to impart any information about the reclusive Brienne MacPhearson. Anything he could learn about the lass before he had to confront her father would be useful.
He shoved his trencher away and reached for his goblet. A few men had left the hall, but most were still eating and drinking, including his father and Laird MacPhearson. One could almost feel the air of challenge between the two powerful lairds, but to their credit, they had remained civil.
On the surface. Malcolm knew it would take very little for tempers to flare, putting the clans at each other’s throats. Malcolm grimaced and wondered how Laird MacPhearson would react when he faced the man he believed fathered his daughter’s child, then swiftly decided tomorrow was soon enough to get the answer to that question.
Chapter Five
Preoccupied with thoughts of her child, Joan tamped down her fear and slipped outside. The night was cloudless and cold, the sky filled with twinkling stars and a full, bright moon. Normally, she would have paused to admire nature’s beauty, but there was no time to indulge such whims this evening. Her need to hold Callum close to her breast, to assess his safety with her own eyes, was all consuming. She could wait no longer.
Oh, how she wished she could use one of the hidden passages that ran beneath the castle to sneak beyond the curtain wall. But she dare not risk revealing its location with so many strangers lurking in every corridor. Instead, she would have to pass through the bailey and then bribe the guards at the gate to look the other way while she left.
Joan moved as quickly as possible, traversing the courtyard with brisk steps, her heart eager at the thought of seeing her son. She was surprised—and dismayed—to see a sizable number of men congregating in front of open fires, their guttural laughter echoing through the still air. She had not anticipated that so many would be out here at this time of night.
Her resolve faltered, but thoughts of her son soon revived it. Frowning, Joan pulled the hood of her cloak forward, hiding not only her golden hair, but her profile. She recognized several Fraser soldiers and needed to ensure they did not ascertain her identity, knowing her former husband would gleefully reward any of his men who humiliated her.
Joan kept one eye on the men and one eye on her destination, walking as swiftly as the uneven ground allowed. She felt a brief moment of ease when the castle gates came into view; then suddenly a menacing shadow loomed in front of her, overpowering and threatening.
She froze. A cold trickle of sweat ran down her spine at the sight of the battle-scarred forearm that reached for her. Joan shrieked with pain as a pair of beefy fingers captured her hand, then tightened around her delicate wrist in a viselike grip.
“Where are ye off to in such a hurry, lass?” the man leered.
Iain! She would know that voice anywhere. He was captain of the Fraser guard, a man lacking in honor and scruples and inordinately proud of his blind loyalty to Archibald. He leaned forward and she could smell the sour wine on his breath. Reflexively, her head snapped back at the foul odor, but thankfully, her hood stayed in place, guarding her identity.
For the moment.
She tamped down the waves of fear that washed over her, knowing if she allowed her panic to rule her, she wouldn’t be able to think clearly. It would be impossible to physically overpower Iain, but she could outwit him. ’Twas her only hope of a quiet escape.
“Release me at once,” she commanded, her tone cold and steady.
Iain paused, loosening his grip and cocking his head questionably. “Lady Joan?”
God save her, he had recognized her voice! Heart pounding, Joan twisted her hand free and stepped back, taking refuge in the shadows, praying that fate would be kind and allow her to get away. She backed off slowly, steadily, carefully over the rough ground, eyes d
arting nervously from Iain to the solid front door of the great hall.
If I can reach it, I’ll be safe from him.
Iain followed her movements, his face glowering down at her. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he reached out a thick hand and roughly pushed back her hood. His breath caught in chilling recognition, and then he reached for his dirk.
Joan stumbled, shrieking in terror as the point of his blade was pressed against her throat. Fighting back, she raised her knee and slammed it into Iain’s groin. He moaned, bending low. She heard the dirk fall to the ground. Seizing the advantage, Joan turned to flee, but Iain grabbed her arm.
Pain exploded through her back and shoulder as her body was slammed against the wall of the building. She could feel the coldness of the stone seeping through her cloak and gown as he pressed harder.
“Ye bitch!” Iain shouted. “Laird Archibald always said ye were a she-wolf.”
She looked up at him, keeping her gaze level. “And ye were always a drunk and a bully, Iain Fraser,” Joan bit out. “Release me.”
“Nay. I’ll leave it to yer husband to decide what’s to be done with ye.”
“I have no husband.” Joan’s voice was strong, but the look in his eyes made her tremble. “Now once again, I demand that ye release me!”
Iain muttered a curse and tightened his grip. Determined not to go meekly, Joan managed to reach down and pull the knife from her belt. She brandished it in front of him, yet the weapon barely gave him pause.
Instead, it seemed to anger him. He raised his fist menacingly. Joan cringed, but the blow never struck.
“Ye heard the lady. Release her.”
A broad-shouldered warrior materialized from the shadows. He had a solid grip on Iain’s raised arm, preventing the punch from landing on Joan.
“Be gone!” Iain shouted. “This is none of yer concern.”
“I disagree,” the warrior insisted. “I cannae allow ye to strike a lady.”
Suddenly, the warrior pulled down on Iain’s arm. Hard. The distinct sound of a cracking bone echoed through the still night air. Iain howled, then dropped to the dirt, writhing in agony.
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